


a gray twilight

by entwashian



Category: Original Work
Genre: Battlefield, Chocolate Box Exchange 2018, F/F, Fantasy, Magic, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Religious Conflict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 08:04:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13609095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entwashian/pseuds/entwashian
Summary: The battlefield holds more than just death and glory.





	a gray twilight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Merit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merit/gifts).



The glow of mage fire still lingers over the battlefield like the embers of a dying hearth.

Nika’s face is young, unlined, and radiant with joy. “Mother of Grace shines upon us again, Commander!” she proclaims, clapping her hand against Sixan’s shoulder.

Sixan forces a grunt of acknowledgement from her dry throat.

“The Mother promised us She would deliver us from this war, and deliver us She has, for this must _surely_ be the end of it!” Nika continues, all praises.

Behind her lies the battlefield, in full view from Sixan’s vantage point. A few dozen of her fellow Daughters roam the field: those who can are tending to the injured with sorcery, those who are depleted are tending to the injured with bandages. Aside from the Daughters, there are several scores of imperial foot soldiers -- Nika’s people -- moving cautiously about the field.

Of the contingent sent by the queen under Sixan’s command, this hundred or so are all that remain. Of the enemy, Sixan can find no remaining movement, cautious or otherwise.

“This **must** be the end of it,” she repeats, which Nika takes as an affirmation. Nika whoops with glee, then charges off in the direction of the encampment, presumably to send a message to the queen conveying the results of the battle.

Sixan will follow her soon enough, but there is still other work to be done. She can’t take her eyes off the field of bodies.

 _”Mother,”_ she pleads under her breath, not for anyone to hear.

Sixan walks the length of the field, uttering a prayer for each fallen Daughter. She kneels so often that her trousers quickly become soaked with congealing blood and cling to her legs with a creeping dampness.

As she nears one end of the field, she hears a staccato breath of surprise. Two of the queen’s infantry are sorting through a pile of bodies, flipping the corpses off to the side in search of the living.

They have found one, but she’s wearing the wrong colors.

Once more, a blade is drawn on the battlefield, and one of the foot soldiers moves to hasten the death of this enemy soldier.

“Stop!” Sixan’s voice crackles with urgency as she calls out, and the foot soldier balks in shock as Sixan swiftly bears down upon them. She beckons the nearest Daughter who still has magic flowing from her fingertips.

“Heal her. Like the others,” Sixan commands. She raises her voice for all to hear. “Mother of Grace has spared this woman! Whom She has chosen for life is not for us to choose to destroy.”

The Daughter summoned by Sixan lays her hands at the head of the enemy, and her fingers begin to weave their magic.

Sixan sees the enemy’s dark eyelashes begin to flutter open. Movement, where there was none.

  


* * *

  


It is always warm here in Mother’s house. One Daughter or another is always showing off with her mage light -- even the ceilings have scorch marks.

Hazinta, though, remains unmarked. She should have been badly scarred by the fireball with which she had been struck mid-battle, or she should be dead. She supposes it was more showing off by the Daughter who saved her to heal her wounds completely rather than perform the standard triage battery.

Hazinta is the victim of compassion. Take Kizo, for example. Here, in the kitchen, Kizo could already be finished with the day’s work of baking bread. Instead, she is showing Hazinta how to lovingly hand craft each tiny loaf.

“I know you’re just here to make sure I’m not poisoning your stores, Daughter,” Hazinta says, perfectly serious, but injecting a sly, playful tone into her voice.

“Nonsense!” Kizo giggles, eyes averted. “I’m exactly where I need to be. Mother _knows_ this house would fall in a matter of days without a decent meal to feed the hordes.”

“Mere _days_?” Hazinta feigns interest in the talk of bread. “Ah, if only my king had known the true weakness of the House of the Mother! My people might yet --”

“Your king? **Your** people?” interrupts a voice from the kitchen entry. Kizo freezes as Sixan crosses the threshold. She’s even larger in this tiny room than she was on the battlefield. She looms over Hazinta, who is grubby and whose hands are covered in flour. “Mother has laid a claim on you. You belong with us now. We _are_ your people.”

“Yes, Commander,” Hazinta mutters, and Kizo is startled out of her frozen position by the use of Sixan’s military title -- a title out of place here in the peaceful, cozy House of Mother. Hazinta wipes her hands on the rag tied at her waist.

“Finish up here, Daughter, and return to the main hall for your next assignment,” Sixan says to Kizo, wrapping her hand around Hazinta’s upper arm. “I have business with this one.”

“Yes, Daughter,” Kizo says, placing another loaf in the oven to bake. The kitchen flares with heat.

Sixan pulls Hazinta out of the room, and Hazinta goes without complaint, though she has to take two steps for every single stride that Sixan makes.

“You shouldn’t tease Kizo so,” Sixan admonishes her once they are alone in the hall. “She’s going to get the wrong idea about you.”

“What _is_ the wrong idea about me?” Hazinta asks.

A small, bitter smile crosses Sixan’s face as she pushes Hazinta into a secluded corner. The walls here, too, are scorched black, and Hazinta wonders if she’ll come away smudged. 

“That you don’t love Mother and revel in the grace She gives us every day,” Sixan says. Not a single emotion -- no warmth, no cold -- tempers her voice.

Hazinta presses her hand, still grubby from scutwork, to the bare skin of Sixan’s neck. She leans in to whisper, as though it were a secret, “You can never force me to love your goddess.”

Sixan bows her head to Hazinta’s touch, tame as a dragon. Her lips graze Hazinta’s jaw. “Nor can I force myself,” she confesses.

Hazinta softly cradles Sixan’s head in her hands. She kisses her unreservedly, and the feeling of victory boils through her blood when Sixan begins to kiss her back. Love, where there was none.


End file.
